


Forgotten Anthems

by Lestradesexwife



Series: Prompt fills and Random Plot Bunnies. [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory Negotiations, Relationship Negotiation, Sub Mycroft, mentions of sherstrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:37:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestradesexwife/pseuds/Lestradesexwife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following from "Dry this Awful Flood" John reviews his options and discovers some interesting aspects of Mycroft's nature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have apparently written myself into shipping Mycroft... This is not something I thought would happen.
> 
> All praises to Provocatrixxx and Sandy for the beta, one day I will write in only one tense, yesterday was not that day. (Sorry Trixxxy you are the BEST)
> 
> Prettyarbitrary enabled this... suggestively... which sounds dirtier than it is.

John carefully chases the last of the greens across his nearly empty plate. The last bite lifted to his mouth, he crosses his utensils on the plate. His motions are studious, careful, as though every gesture will be taken to mean something else. He lifts his glass of ice water, briefly he wonders how ice manages to look expensive, watching Mycroft watch him. “So what are my options then?”

“What do you imagine your options to be?”

John shifted in his chair, “Are you empowered to negotiate for them?”

Mycroft merely raised his eyebrow.

John remembered the touch of Mycroft’s shoe against his ankle. “What about you then? Do you have a... girlfriend?”

Mycroft laughed, and John thought perhaps he felt a brush against his shoe. “How very heteronormative of you John. No, my work... the requirements do not allow me the time to maintain... emotional attachments... in the traditional sense.” He adjusted his unused fork beside his empty plate. “Boyfriends, as you were about to ask, tend to be put off by broken promises and missed holidays.”

John cleared his throat but held Mycroft’s gaze, “So no emotional attachments... in this arrangement.”

“Quite the opposite, my brother will deny he is capable of anything so... messy. I think you will find him quite devoted to Lestrade, and Lestrade is protective of my brother.”

John leant back, sipped his water. “You and Lestrade?”

“He isn’t being coerced. If that is what concerns you. We have similar... shall we say methods.”

“You make it sound very... tidy.”

John is getting better at reading Holmesian facial expressions. Mycroft looked briefly disappointed, then understanding dawned on his features. “John, we are all adults. If I may, you seem to be labouring under the impression that... perhaps that we are humouring you?” Mycroft seemed surprised to find that he was leaning forward, his fingers extended on the table cloth towards John. He wet his lips and leaned back. “Whatever you decided, it need not be set in stone. You can terminate or extend the agreement in whole or part at any point. 

John forced air out between his teeth and looked away.

“John...”

“I think it is time to go.”

“Very well.”

The car was waiting for them in a no parking zone just outside the restaurant door. Only once they were out in the street did John appreciate that Mycroft had emptied the place before bringing him here, the crowded street bringing John back into the world.

Not for the first time, John wondered if Mycroft was psychic. His henchmen and drivers never seemed to need instructions. John smirked, or perhaps it just came from having thought out every move in advance.

They settled on opposite benches, John avoiding Mycroft’s gaze. The reflection in the tinted glass showed him a hunger on Mycroft’s face, one that John hadn’t been willing to acknowledge previously. He shouldn’t want this, part of his brain was still insisting that he should forget all of this madness, have Mycroft drop him at a pub and try to pull a woman. He knew he could, he has done it before, one night stands... sex without complications. He fisted his hands against his knees, trying to imagine the charade of trying to form a connection with someone whose idea of a danger comes from Hollywood.

The connection he has with Sherlock... Greg, and even Mycroft... it felt more like the connection he had with members of his platoon in Afghanistan. He’d never thought of his mates, that way. It was easy - so simple with Sherlock... he just had to remember the sounds from Greg’s throat... the need he had felt in his bones since. 

The tension melted from his hands. He didn’t look at Mycroft, let himself watch London pass by the window. He let his knees fall open, shifted his hips forward until he was almost sprawled on the bench. He watched Mycroft’s reflection, shivered as Mycroft was transformed by desire. 

Long graceful fingers curled slightly to rap - twice, slowly - on the glass that separated them from the driver.

John let himself smile, turned towards Mycroft. “So they aren’t just controlled by your brain?”

“No.”

And thank God John was looking at Mycroft, because the sight of him, sliding down from the bench and across the space between them... Mycroft’s fingers arrived first, warm even through John’s jeans. He let Mycroft push his legs farther apart, watched as he folded himself into a space that wasn’t long enough for this. 

“You don’t... have to.”

“So considerate.” Mycroft shouldn’t have been able to purr words with more than three syllables. The sound of Mycroft’s voice shouldn’t have sent the remainder of John’s blood supply to his cock. 

John didn’t feel particularly considerate, God he wanted... he could, he thought Mycroft would let him, “God My... the things I would do to you.”

If Mycroft hadn’t already been on his knees John was fairly sure he would have collapsed in front of John. “Gladly, Captain Watson.”

John inhaled sharply through his nose, lifted his hand from the leather seat and ran his thumb along Mycroft’s jaw. The pad caught on Mycroft’s bottom lip, drew his mouth open. John exhaled as Mycroft’s tongue dabbed at him, it didn’t matter that he was shamming the tentative licks, that this was designed to draw something more from John. Mycroft wanted to be pushed harder, but John would make him work for it. 

“I should push you down, ruin all your perfect lines and send you back out into the world.” John pulled his thumb back from Mycroft’s lips and smiled as Mycroft chased after the contact. “Perhaps another day.”

Mycroft’s fingers tightened against John’s thighs, John tensed his legs to remind Mycroft to focus. The sound that comes from Mycroft’s throat could not be considered a whimper, was probably closer to a moan. John groaned in response, his cock twitching in the confines of his jeans, “Fuck, My...” part of his brain made a note to examine the way Mycroft’s breath hitched when John called him My. 

It was flattering to reduce Mycroft to scrabbling at his belt and fly, a relief to have his cock freed, and an exquisite joy to have Mycroft’s lips wrapped around the head.

John couldn’t watch. If he watched the slow slide of Mycroft’s lips over his cock he would snap, tangle his fingers in Mycroft’s hair and push into him. John needed this to last, needed to make Mycroft’s jaw ache... needed to fuck Mycroft so hard he came before they even cleared the traffic lights. 

He only realized that he had been speaking, growling out desires, when he felt the quick repetitive brush of Mycroft’s knuckles against his calf. “I’d keep you in your suit, fuck My, obviously I’d need to do something about your hands... I think Sherlock has a pair or two of Lestrade’s handcuffs around somewhere.” John’s hips twitched pushing his cock against the back of Mycroft’s throat. “I bet you’ll get stroppy, forget your place and try to boss me about. Not so imposing on your knees with your hands strapped to your ankles.”

Mycroft convulsed. His hand jerked twice against John’s calf, and he groaned deep around John’s cock. John let his hands rest on Mycroft’s shoulders, just enough to give himself resistance as his hips snap and his cock slid deeper into Mycroft’s mouth. “Shush, now... My, so good... ah... just a bit more... there you are... so good My...” John let his head roll against the seat, his hips and hands work together with the motion of the car, waves of pleasure washing over him. The tiny noises Mycroft made as John shifted inside him sent sparkles of pleasure over John’s nerves. 

John opened his eyes and found Mycroft looking up at him, cheeks hollowed and eyes hooded. He looked perfect, not a hair out of place and John’s shaft disappearing to the root between his lips. “My, you are so gorgeous... so good My, good boy My.” John’s hips snapped forward and his cock twitched harder between Mycroft’s lips as he came. John managed to watch, to feel, as Mycroft’s throat worked to swallow the waves of pleasure John pushed into him. 

Mycroft was resting, his head in John’s lap, mouth stretched around John’s softening cock, when John opened his eyes again. His heart rate had returned to something like resting. And it was so tempting to sleep, to leave Mycroft warm and wet around his cock and just let the wash of chemicals carry him into oblivion. 

The courteous part of his brain knew that Mycroft’s legs were too long for the floor space, that even though he was content to remain on his knees. Now it was John’s responsibility to ensure he didn’t damage himself. He slid his hips back, drawing his cock slowly from Mycroft’s mouth. He ran his thumb over Mycroft’s bottom lip sighing as Mycroft flicked his tongue out in thanks.

John slid Mycroft’s pocket square out of his breast pocket, unfolded it carefully and used it to clean Mycroft’s fingers. When they were no longer tacky he turned Mycroft’s palm up and pressed a dry kiss against it. “Next time, this is for me.”

“Yes, John.”

John raised an eyebrow at him.

“Sir.”

John ran his fingers over Mycroft’s jaw and tucked the silk square into the pocket of his jeans, adjusted his cock back into his pants and closed his fly. “Very good, My.” He pulled his belt closed before offering his hand to Mycroft. “Are your legs bothering you?”

Mycroft pushed himself up off the floor, and it should have been ungainly and awkward but it was graceful. John resolved to test the limits of Mycroft’s physical endurance. “Stubborn.”

Mycroft straightened his clothing, raised two fingers to the glass and tapped again. He was silent as the car turned a corner and pulled to a stop. John was not at all surprised to find that they were outside 221B.

“Right, not controlled with your brain. Will you come up?” John’s mind was already filled with the endless possibilities of Mycroft willingly at John’s command.

“Ah.” And this was the British Government speaking again, all traces of My vanishing in a flash that left John breathless. “I believe Sherlock is expecting you.”

“Another time then.”

“Yes.”

John opened the car door and let himself out. Didn’t look back as the car pulled away. Only paused on the step long enough to retrieve his keys from his pocket. If his fingers trailed over the wrinkled silk in his pocket, it was only to keep it from being dislodged by his keys.


	2. I wouldn't mind the rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes to visit John when he knows everyone else will be away for the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now featuring a bit more bondage and domination.
> 
> Many thanks due to [LapOtter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LapOtter/pseuds/LapOtter) for seeing me through the first bit of this... and to [Consulting_smartass](http://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass) for a very wonderful beta job on the finished work
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who reads, you guys are the best...

John is tidying, well, not tidying so much as reclaiming lost artifacts. Sarah had called in the morning to cancel his shift at the surgery. The doctor John was to fill in for had had a falling out with their partner and had decided to stay home from the long weekend in Brighton. Sarah had promised to make it up to him, though John isn’t bothered by it. Frankly he’s happy to be home, alone in the flat with nothing better to do than sort through the piles of paperwork and bits of evidence that Sherlock seems to accumulate as a matter of course. Mrs. Hudson refuses to touch most of it, other than running her feather duster over the top layer. It also gives John time to organize his thoughts and plan out his blog posts.

 

Sherlock ran out this morning, with nary a word of explanation nor any subsequent text messages summoning John. All in all it is a quiet day at Baker Street. He’d found several of Lestrade’s warrant cards, enough that he’s started a small pile on the table by the windows with the intention of secreting them out of the flat and returning them to Lestrade. Despite, or because of, the chaos in the main areas of the flat Sherlock is hyper aware of his surroundings. John chews his lip and stares at the contents of the box; several of Lestrade’s warrant cards, a set of handcuffs and matching keys, and the nameplate off Anderson’s desk.  He wonders how angry Sherlock will be if John gives them back to Lestrade, or if he will even notice. John has just come to the conclusion that returning the items to Lestrade will only give Sherlock permission to nick them again when the door opens behind him.

 

“Water’s just on if you fancy a cuppa, Mrs. Hudson. There’s no milk I’m afraid.”

 

“A kind offer, Captain Watson, however I believe Mrs. Hudson has gone with the Turner woman to the National Theatre.”

 

John manages not to startle at the sound of Mycroft’s voice. He turns and takes in the sight of him, standing slightly inside the sitting room door. His hands, open and empty, Mycroft stands with his arms raised slightly, making a point of showing himself to be unarmed. 

 

“Sherlock isn’t here.” John can’t decide if he’s angry or relieved that Mycroft is catering to John’s PTSD.

 

“I know. I’ve come to see you, Captain Watson.”

 

Mycroft’s words are stiff and formal and make John’s heart race. He hasn’t heard his name and rank on Mycroft’s tongue since the car ride home, the last time he was kidnapped and the first time he came down Mycroft’s throat.

 

“Close the door and come in.” John indicates a spot of rug, free of the debris of living with Sherlock. Mycroft turns and pulls the door to, his hand hovering briefly on the handle. “You may lock it.” Mycroft’s long fingers close delicately over the key and twist it, the click of the lock engaging no louder than usual but still managing to send a kick of adrenaline through John.

 

Mycroft moves as though he is suspended in amber, stops at precisely the place that John indicated on the floor. He doesn’t sway or waver, but John can see the desire to fold, the effort of will that is necessary for Mycroft to remain on his feet. “I suppose it is refreshing not to be kidnapped. Why are you here, Mycroft?”

 

There is the tiniest shudder along every axis of Mycroft’s body. “Sir...” The word drops from Mycroft’s lips, and his jaw snaps shut tight on it, holding back the beginnings of a plea.

 

John allows the idea of forcing Mycroft to stand to slide through his mind, balances the potential for punishing Mycroft by not giving him what he wants against the aesthetically pleasing memory of Mycroft on his knees. “Down, Mycroft.” 

 

“Thank you, Sir.” Mycroft twitches open the buttons of his jacket, the motion crisp and effective before he folds himself gracefully, stepping back with one foot to bend first one knee and then the other. John could have drawn a line in the carpet along the tips of Mycroft’s shoes that would have matched perfectly with the final resting place of Mycroft’s knees. He’s come no closer than John allowed. 

 

John considers Mycroft’s shoes for a moment. The hard leather and sharp soles are poorly designed for extended periods of kneeling. “You are to inform me if your shoes need to come off.”

 

“Yes, sir.” 

 

John accepts Mycroft’s gratitude with a brisk nod. The image of Mycroft barefoot but otherwise completely formally dressed gives him cause to consider ordering him to remove his shoes and socks. 

 

“Good boy, Mycroft.” John closes the distance between them, reaching down to cup Mycroft’s jaw and tilt his head up. “Don’t worry I will take care of you.” Mycroft’s eyes are heavy lidded and he presses back against John’s hand. John holds him, quiet for a moment before sliding his thumb over Mycroft’s lips. “I’m going to use you later. First I would like to try something out on you.... alright?”

 

“Sir. Yes, please.” 

 

“I need some things. Stay.” John doesn’t wait for an answer, simply walks away from Mycroft. 

Mycroft doesn’t move, doesn’t settle or relax, doesn’t ask why and John is smiling as he opens the hallway door. They haven’t talked about it at all, but one of the perks of fucking the Holmes brothers is they always know how to behave, even if Sherlock chooses not to most of the time. John takes the stairs to his room two at a time; the box he needs is tucked under his bed and is only the work of an instant to retrieve. 

 

John forces himself to wait, count out thirty seconds in his head. Before returning down the stairs, he’s been gone only a minute, and Mycroft hasn’t moved a muscle. John closes and locks the door behind him. Counts out another thirty seconds before crossing the room to stand in front of Mycroft. The box goes onto the table, just out of Mycroft’s sight lines. John hums his approval as he slides his hands down across Mycroft’s shoulders and down to his chest. “Superb, My. I could get addicted to the feel of your suits.” 

 

“Thank you, _Sir_.” The edge on Mycroft’s voice almost makes John chuckle.

 

John licks his lips and looks down at the box on the table. “I want to make you come, but only when I’m finished with you. Stand up and open your trousers.”

 

Mycroft shifts, unfolding just as gracefully as he knelt. He makes quick work of the flies of his trousers.

 

“Just open is fine.”

 

Mycroft’s hands flutter back to his sides, but he refrains from looking at John questioningly.

 

John smiles. “You’ve already sorted out what I’m going to do haven’t you, My?”

 

“I have several possible theories...”

 

“Hmm. Well then. Hands on the table and spread your legs.” John moves to the side and allows Mycroft to arrange himself. He’s too close to the table at first, bent only slightly at the hip to place his hands on the surface. John tsks and puts the back of his hand on Mycroft’s thigh, exerting the lightest pressure to slide Mycroft’s feet back until his arms are extended, bent at the waist nearly ninety degrees. The fine line of Mycroft’s suit is ruined by the open fly and the hint of complementary colour of his pants. “You have your pants tailored to match your suits, don’t you? Of course you do. May I?”

 

John slides his fingers inside the heavy cloth of Mycroft’s jacket, where it is rucked up by the positioning of Mycroft’s arms. The warmth of Mycroft’s body and the satin of his waistcoat turn the space obscene and John allows his eyes to close until his fingers make contact with the waistband of Mycroft’s trousers. “I used to think about this you know. Well, not _this_. After that time in your office, I used to think about bending you over your desk and spanking some manners into you. So polite, and yet an utter _wanker_. Strictly non-sexual, you understand.” John pushes aside layers of fabric to glide his fingertips over skin, up under the layers of Mycroft’s suit. “This was before our little car ride. Just stress relief for me.” The down stroke of John’s fingers turn harsh, dragging his nails down over Mycroft’s sides until his fingers slide under the band of his pants and tug downward. “Afterwards...” John’s head drops against Mycroft’s back. “All I thought about after that was how much I want to come down your throat again.” John lifts his head, pulling away from the deep rumbling moan in Mycroft’s chest. “Don’t worry, we’ll get there... everything was a bit rushed in the car. I’d like to take my time with you tonight. If you have no objections?”

 

“None.”

 

The corner of John’s mouth tugs up. The arrangement, the four of them... John never ever thought it would work, and it hasn’t been entirely sunshine and roses. In fact, it has mostly been death and corpses, the occasional international incident. That suits John just fine, the exposed soft curve of Mycroft’s arse under his hands should be foreign territory. They haven’t done any of the “proper” relationship building he is used to, nothing in this falls into any of the categories he was taught to expect. This isn’t strictly casual sex, isn’t the kind of relationship that means date nights and long walks on the beach. John steps slightly to Mycroft’s side, left hand smoothing over the cheeks of Mycroft’s arse. He flicks the lid off the box, reaching down with his right hand to pull one of the smaller toys from the box. “You aren’t allergic to latex?”

 

“No.”

 

John sets the toy down, close enough to Mycroft’s fingers that he could reach out and touch it, digs through the box until he finds a stray condom. He doesn’t want to take his hand off Mycroft so he uses his teeth to open the wrapper, the toy is too small for the condom, so he has to tie it off around the base. He makes sure that it is set to ‘remote’ before he closes the condom around it. He roots through the box again and finds some lube to coat the toy. 

 

John’s operating mainly on instinct and trying to suppress his medical background when he spreads Mycroft open. His cock doesn’t twitch at the sight of Mycroft’s tight arsehole. He pauses, rubs the tip of the toy gently over Mycroft’s hole, considering and rejecting the idea of fucking Mycroft this way. He wants Mycroft, but... the idea... the fully formed picture of Mycroft squirming on the toy and desperately sucking John’s cock appeals far more. John groans as Mycroft’s body accepts the toy, smiles at the slight shift in Mycroft’s shoulders when John twists it into contact with his prostate.

 

John steps back, admiring the line of Mycroft’s body bent over the table. “Make yourself presentable, but take off your shoes and socks. Then kneel, as comfortably as you like. You can have a cushion if you need... you are going to be on your knees for... some time.”

 

Mycroft moves stiffly, arranging his clothing into something approaching his usual crisp lines and faultless creases. When he bends to remove his shoes and socks he flinches and John narrows his eyes.

 

“Alright?”

 

“Yes, Sir. It moved.”

 

“Bad?”

 

“No, Sir.” Mycroft pulls, vague and ineffectual at his shoelaces, breathing through his nose. 

 

John tsks and clicks the button on the remote twice in rapid succession. The sound of the vibrator activating in Mycroft’s arse is loud in the room, equally so for the sudden silence that follows. “Concentrate, My. Shoes off... and kneel for me.” John is almost disappointed, this will be easy if Mycroft doesn’t have the willpower to resist the temptations John has planned to offer him.

 

“I’m sorry, Sir. It won’t happen again.” There’s a shift in Mycroft’s shoulder and he carefully folds his socks and tucks them into his shoes. The shoes are lined up perfectly and tucked under the table. Mycroft returns to his position and folds, gingerly, to the floor.

 

“Did you forget a cushion?”

 

“No, Sir.”

 

John waits until Mycroft has settled, the tips of his long toes just showing under his arse. His eye catches on the glint of metal on the desk and he decides to test Mycroft’s limits.

 

“Look at me.”

 

Once Mycroft brings his gaze up to John’s he moves his hands, and John snags the cuffs and key from the table. “Watch.” John closes the teeth of the cuffs over his wrist, then uses the key to unlock them. Repeating the motion with the second cuff. “Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

 

“Behind your back then.”

 

Mycroft obeys beautifully, rolling his shoulders and turning his elbows smoothly to place his wrists together behind his back. John paces around behind him, smirks a bit at the lines of My’s jacket, slightly more rumpled than his usual ‘I’ve been pressed into my suit’ crispness, nothing a normal person would notice or even glance twice at. “God, My, you make it so tempting to ruin your suits.” He stoops and closes the cuff around Mycroft’s wrist, waits a beat before closing the second one. He wants to know if Mycroft will get demanding, Sherlock’s submissive streak is a mile wide, but he hides it by being demanding and pretending to top from the bottom. Mycroft’s submission is a razor wire, precise and controlled just like the rest of him. 

 

His head doesn’t turn to look back at John, and he doesn’t flinch or move when John closes the other cuff over his wrist. There is only the smallest sense of relief that flows from Mycroft as the wrist is secured. John stays behind him to admire the image, then moves to sit in Sherlock’s chair. 

 

He settles and turns slightly to face Mycroft, estimating sightlines, he will just be visible in the corner of Mycroft’s eye but he doesn’t turn to look at him. “This is where I first saw them. Greg was... god it was beautiful. Their voices... well it wasn’t even really words. Just remembering the sounds they made makes me hard. Sitting in this chair makes me hard. I don’t know how Sherlock does it, working with Greg everyday, when he sounds like that with Greg’s cock up his arse.” He’s watching Mycroft closely, sees the sway that he tries to prevent, watches the tiny motion that betrays Mycroft’s need. 

 

John palms at his cock through his trousers, the temptation is there; he could have Mycroft crawl across the floor now. John looks Mycroft over again, he’s needy yes... but nowhere like the level of desperation John would like to see. 

 

John tucks the remote into his pocket. “Good. Now, I was sorting through some of this.” He waves his hand to indicate the general clutter in the room. “I’m nearly through, and then I will see to you, yes?”

 

“Of course, Sir.”

 

“Sherlock leaves such a mess, and all of it is _important_.”  John picks up the papers off the coffee table and stacks them neatly, flicking through them briefly before tossing them into the large cardboard box next to the door. John’s not sure where all the old papers go, only that Sherlock empties the box and refills the flat with new information on a quasi-regular regular basis. If John leaves the papers where Sherlock drops them they simply acquire more layers. They never negotiated this system, but it works well for everyone. Similarly, John is only speaking now to reassure Mycroft that he hasn’t left the room or forgotten about him. Mycroft doesn’t answer and John moves on to the next task he has set for himself. 

 

It is remarkably refreshing, having Mycroft there, silent and patient. The attention he has to pay to Mycroft makes the little day to day tasks more interesting. He notices when Mycroft tries to shift his feet under him without _actually_ moving his feet. John is behind Mycroft, sorting through a pile of post Sherlock shoved carelessly onto the shelf on the passageway into the kitchen. He tucks the pile of post under his arm and retrieves the remote from his pocket. He’s unsure of the range of the remote so he extends his arm towards Mycroft before clicking the button. The thing only has on/off, and judging by the sound it is fairly powerful. John smiles as Mycroft’s head tilts back, the long line of his neck exposed as he struggles not to make a sound. 

 

John moves back into Mycroft’s line of sight, which turns out to be irrelevant since Mycroft’s eyes are tightly shut. “Oh, there you are.” He drops the post on the table and leans back against it watching Mycroft slowly adjust to the sensations. 

 

Mycroft’s face relaxes and his eyes open, he’s still breathing deeply through his nose. 

 

John waits until Mycroft’s eyes rise to meet his. “Do you need a safeword, or green/yellow/red?”

 

“No, Sir. I’m fine. I wasn’t expecting it to be this powerful.” Mycroft speaks with the slurred tones of someone trying not to moan, his lips barely opening enough to form the words.

 

“I’m afraid it isn’t very subtle.” John toys with the remote, keeping his hands in Mycroft’s view. “Effective, but not something I’d want to have you wear in public.” John clicks off the power and Mycroft visibly sags. “I’ve a silent one for that.”

 

Mycroft inhales sharply, air catching at the back of his throat audibly. “Yes, Sir.”

 

John turns and tosses the remote, catching it in his other hand and moving to sit in Sherlock’s chair. “Not today though. I think today is just for me.” His laptop and phone are all within reach, but he chooses the novel he’s been reading on and off for the last several weeks. The dog-eared page falls open easily and he shifts slightly, this chair doesn’t really suit him but he needs the sightline on Mycroft. In the corner of his eye he sees Mycroft settling again, and he gives him enough time to regain his balance. John quickly scans over the page in front of him and decides to use the instances of the main character’s name being used as a sort of sexual drinking game. There will be no way for Mycroft to predict when John will turn on or shut off the vibrator. And it will provide some interesting data on Mycroft’s restraint. 

 

John flips back a page to get a full section of dialogue, and finds the first use of the character’s name. He checks Mycroft briefly in the corner of his eye before turning the vibrator back on; he’ll have to be careful not to let himself glance at Mycroft only when he is about to change the setting. Even distracted, the Holmes brothers have a remarkable gift for pattern recognition.

 

The sound of the vibrator is loud in the room, nearly distracts John from his novel. He folds the corner back over on his page, making a note of where he started reading. He wants to make Mycroft work for his attention, but he isn’t willing to risk actually ignoring Mycroft... and really one never knows when Sherlock is going to come bounding up the stairs. 

 

John isn’t sure what Sherlock would do, confronted with the sight of his brother, kneeling and restrained. “If Sherlock came home... would I need to let you loose?” John says it conversationally, not looking up from his book. Mycroft doesn’t answer immediately and John turns his head to look at him fully, watching the tension in Mycroft’s shoulders. John sighs and thumbs the remote. “We need to work on your communication skills My, I asked you a question.”

 

Mycroft inhales, draws breath to answer and John flips the switch back on, smiling slightly at the groan that escapes Mycroft’s lips instead of the words he had intended.

 

“Sherlock and I have an agreement that supersedes our arrangements with Greg and yourself.”

 

“So he’d leave?”

 

“He’d ask if you wished for him to stay.”

 

“And if I wished to take him over the back of this chair while you watched?” John licks his lips, he doesn’t think he’s wrong. Thinks he knows where the boundary lies between the brothers.

 

Mycroft’s chin drops to his chest. “He’d ask for my clearance word, and I for his.” 

 

John palms his cock again and turns the vibration back on. “That sounds very civilized. Does it get you off, watching him?”

 

Mycroft turns his head away from John, lips pressed tight and eyes closed.

 

“Oh. I’m sorry, of course... it isn’t that. You get off, both of you, on being used... Alright. Thank you, My.” John turns back to his book, reading slowly, checking each set of letters until he finds the next mention of the protagonist’s name. He flips the remote and turns his head slightly to look at Mycroft. The fine crisp lines of his suit are gone, his breathing rapid and his shoulders hunched. He’s biting his lip, the thin line of his bottom lip bunched between his teeth. John stands and crosses the space, gentling his hands over Mycroft’s shoulders. Mycroft is warm, his skin burning through the layers of his suit. 

 

Mycroft leans into John’s hands, trying to collect himself, shifting under John’s hands until he is nearly composed. Except that his face is turned away, eyes focused on a spot on the rug to the right of John’s shoes. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

 

John hooks a finger under Mycroft’s chin. “Do you want to stop? I want you to enjoy this too Mycroft, and you have been very good for me so far.” He looks away from Mycroft, making a show of checking to doorway. “How long is Mrs. Hudson’s play?”

 

“I’ve arranged for them to be the lucky winners in random drawing, they will be treated to dinner after the matinee.”

 

John smiles. “Not taking any chances. Did you drop a case in your brother’s lap as well?”

 

“No, Sir.”

 

“So, some chances were taken then.” 

“A calculated risk, Sir.”

 

John releases Mycroft’s chin and half-turns to pull the chair out from the table. He sits, trying to let his knees fall open without being crass about it, although this close to Mycroft’s mouth the temptation is to put the chair inside Mycroft’s space and just push him down... later, that can be later. “I’ve got so many things I would like to do to you, Mycroft. I’d like to hear the sounds you make with Greg’s cock up your arse. I bet you sound delicious.” His cock twitches and he shifts on the hard wooden chair. “God, My. I’d sit in my chair and watch Greg fuck you. Do you try to hold it in? Do you whimper and sigh while he fills you up? Or do you scream and thrash about?” 

 

Mycroft closes his eyes and John is tempted to reach out and stroke his cheek. Instead he presses the button on the remote, and then sets it aside on the table. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and bringing his lips closer to Mycroft’s ear, speaking so he can be heard over the buzzing. “Can you come just from Greg fucking you? I can’t decide if I would want to see you come, or make you wait until he’d finished with you and then have you suck me off. There’s something about the idea of you on your knees... filled up with Greg’s come and my cock down your throat.”

 

Mycroft’s hips buck against air and he produces a low moan that is barely recognizable over the sound of the toy. His head drops to his chest and he inhales in a rush, gasping in lungfuls of air. 

 

The sound of Mycroft’s wrists straining against the cuffs brings a smile to John’s lips. “Gently now, My.” John slides the chair across the floor, leaning closer to Mycroft and looking over his shoulder. “Naughty, trying to cheat? Hands off.” John relaxes as Mycroft’s hands clench, long fingers curling around themselves even as Mycroft rocks on his knees. 

 

“Please.”

 

“Please, what? Let you touch yourself? I told you last time... that is for me.” John tilts his head, still so close to Mycroft’s ear, until he can see Mycroft’s profile. No more snooty, posh curls of lip or peering down his nose at John, this is Mycroft reduced to basic needs, wanton. “Gorgeous. So good.” John shifts back, adjusts the chair until Mycroft will have to roll his shoulders, keeping his hands high on his back to have his mouth fucked. John flicks the button of his fly open, pausing with his fingers on the zip. 

 

Mycroft’s lips are moving, the same shapes repeating over and over again.

 

“Use your words My.” John’s concern spikes, eyes flicking to the remote on the table.

 

Mycroft licks his lips. “Please, sir, please...”

 

John leans forward, catching Mycroft’s jaw with his thumb. “Shush, good boy. You can come soon... Look how hard you’ve made me, My.” Mycroft leans forward, balanced on his knees between John’s thighs. John pushes the zipper down and hitches his hips up, just enough to push his pants and trousers down and feed his cock between Mycroft’s lips. They groan together and the vibration inside Mycroft’s mouth is delicious. John’s body relaxes, going boneless, arms falling to his sides and dangling off the chair. “Finally. Fuck. You are such a tease, My.” 

 

Sherlock would break free, force John to lift his hand and push him back down. Mycroft simply regains his composure, teases tongue and lips over the head of John’s cock. John watches the contortions of Mycroft’s body, the desperation rolling off him in waves. John rocks his hips forward, his left hand comes up to hold Mycroft steady as he pushes deep.“There you are. That’s what you need, isn’t it?”

John’s hips settle and his hand rests against the nape of Mycroft’s neck, letting Mycroft work to bring John off. 

 

“I’d like to watch Greg take you apart, I think...” he sighs as Mycroft sinks deeper down on his cock, rolling his tongue. John’s fingers sneak into Mycroft’s hair line and push him even deeper. “I think I’d rather have you do this while Greg’s filling you up.” He’s rewarded for the suggestion by a high pitched needy sound in the back of Mycroft’s throat. 

 

John’s eyes narrow and he has to fight to keep his head from dropping back and losing eye contact with Mycroft. “God you’re gorgeous, My.” John’s fingers curl in Mycroft’s hair and pull him up slowly, watching the slide of his cock through Mycroft’s lips. He has to pull, to slow Mycroft down, on the downstroke, manages to hold Mycroft steady and push up with his hips instead. He pumps his hips several more times, shallow and slow until Mycroft’s hips start to move in unison. 

 

“What am I going to do with you, My?” John’s balls draw up and pleasure spikes through him as Mycroft bottoms out and gags slightly. He pulls Mycroft’s head back up and speeds the combination of his thrusts with the slight movements of Mycroft’s head. Pleasure growing steadily until he shouts out Mycroft’s name and pushes him back down, hips stuttering and shaking as he comes in Mycroft’s mouth. 

 

Mycroft pulls free of John’s cock and rests his cheek against John’s thigh. John sighs and brushes his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, straightening it slightly where his fingers have mussed it. 

 

The next part takes ages, reaching for the handcuff key and the remote for the vibrator. Pulling Mycroft up and stripping off the remains of his suit, spreading him out on the couch. John takes time preparing himself, sits straddled over Mycroft’s knees, one hand stroking Mycroft slowly and the other gently opening himself up. He’s half hard again by the time he sinks down, and part of him thinks he will never grow tired of watching the Holmes men enter him. Mycroft’s face is ecstatic, his hair beyond all hope of repair on the pillow. 

 

John sets the pace slow, enjoying the way Mycroft feels inside him and the way Mycroft’s hands creep over his body, as though any second John could catch him sliding fingers over John’s thighs and slap his hands away. 

 

When Mycroft’s fingers wrap around John’s cock he can’t help the groan, and his head drops back between his shoulders. John lets his body respond to the pace of Mycroft’s fingers, quiet streams of praise falling from his lips as Mycroft dares to lift his hips up to meet John’s movements. 

 

“Good, good boy, My.” John reaches down to brush the tips of his fingers over Mycroft’s nipple, mouth curling into a wicked smile as Mycroft’s cock twitches harder inside him. “That’s a good boy, My, come for me now.”

 

The wave of pleasure that passes through John as Mycroft stiffens and shakes, groaning and back arching his orgasm into John, isn’t exactly an orgasm in its own right. The knowledge that he’s drawn this much pleasure from Mycroft fills him with warmth, stronger than afterglow and it makes his toes curl in pleasure. 

 

Mycroft’s hands on the small of his back, holding him close, blunt edges of his nails digging just slightly into his skin send another shiver through him. John rolls into the contact, settling down and tucking his head against Mycroft’s shoulder. None of the men in this arrangement seem much for cuddling, or kissing for that matter, and he knows that they won’t stay this way for long, but he can chalk this up to aftercare and exhaustion. 

 

“Sir? Should I?” Mycroft’s voice in his ear is soft. “You’re still...”

 

John can already feel his desire ebbing away and he disentangles himself and climbs off the couch. “Don’t worry about it, My. Do you want to... You can shower if you like.” John casts about and finds his jeans, steps into them and tucks himself away. 

 

“Yes, I think so.” Mycroft stands and gathers his discarded clothing, heads for the bath without needing to be told where it is. 

 

“I’ll put the kettle on?”

 

“That’s not necessary, John. Thank you anyway.”

 

John smiles as Mycroft makes his unabashed way down the corridor.

 

“Maybe next time?”

 

Mycroft turns, nearly smiles at John. “Of course.”

 


End file.
